


the art of inscription

by MegaBadBunny



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, Pete's World (Doctor Who), Romance, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Tentoo is the Doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 16:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21274385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegaBadBunny/pseuds/MegaBadBunny
Summary: No, she can’t read the script on her wrist; yes, she still knows what it means.





	the art of inscription

It’s Gallifreyan, that much is certain. He can’t quite make out the script—no time for parsing out the arches that denote gliding vowels, the circles portraying sibilant fricatives, not when she pulls her cuff over her wrist so quickly it gives him whiplash—but even in that glance, the shape is unmistakable, the meaning undeniable. The way she can’t meet his eyes as she buttons the traditional cuff around her forearm only confirms it. The name on her wrist is his.

(Rose can’t read it, of course, but it mirrors his own writing exactly, echoing the spidery script that peppers the TARDIS console in a flurry of sticky notes, reminding him to fine-tune the propulsion system or repair the exotic matter trap. Some notes posted around the TARDIS bear Rose’s mark as well, with little scribbled cat’s-ears or bunny-faces or sly jokes, and sometimes, she’ll even try duplicating his writing, trying to match the lines and whorls.)

No, she can’t read the script on her wrist; yes, she still knows what it means.

The cuff slips and Rose smacks her other hand down on it, holding it in place and punishing it for ever daring to move at all, and only then does the Doctor notice how very hard she’s trembling. (The Doctor, for his part, doesn’t tremble; not on the outside, anyway.) He frowns. 

“You’re shaking,” he says. “Are you all right?” 

She nods. “S’just a little cold here.”

(It’s 27.6 degrees Celsius, and sunny.)

“So,” says the Doctor, shoving his hands in his pockets to disguise their fidgeting, “Yue-Lao Twelve, home to the infamous Pearl Island mystery, renowned planet of the so-called _soulmarks_. What do you think?”

“I think I should have believed you,” Rose replies, shaking her head. “But it still seems like a bunch of magic mumbo-jumbo to me.”

“Awww, Rose Tyler. With everything we’ve seen, you still think this sort of thing isn’t possible? Don’t you know better by now?”

“You know what? You’re absolutely right,” Rose says, flipping her hair over one shoulder and meeting his gaze with a flat stare. “Shall we go on a leprechaun hunt next?”

“Certainly!” the Doctor beams. “I’ve always wanted to find one.”

Rolling her eyes, Rose laughs, swinging one hand into his. Fingers fit together like strands of a braid and they bound away, in pursuit of any facts they can glean about this fabled Pearl Island event. And after a few moments, thoughts of this soulmark business have almost completely vanished from his mind; the Doctor can almost believe that the adrenaline speeding up his heartsrate is spurred on only by this newest adventure, nothing more.

(He is in no great hurry to check his own wrist; he already knows what he’ll see there.)

***

A universe and a galaxy and a regeneration away, he panics.

“It’s like that one place we went to--you remember the one,” says Rose happily, looping an arm through the Doctor’s. As well as she can in the thin light of the moon, she inspects the underside of her wrist, which, much as it was several years ago, is now once again adorned with the Doctor’s disjointed chirography. “In the other universe. _Something _Island. Remember?”

“Erm,” he says, his mind racing to think of something he can say or do to play for time, and failing spectacularly.

“D’you remember?” Rose asks expectantly.

_Yes _is the correct answer, but the Doctor doesn’t say it, because he’s afraid of all the words that will come after (or more precisely, the words that _won’t_). So instead, he says, “Well” and “You see” and “Erm,” again.

Rose’s eyes narrow in suspicion. The Doctor’s hands twitch nervously with the need to hide behind his back.

“Oh my god,” says Rose, softly.

The Doctor gulps.

Her face breaks into a wide grin. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

“Now, I wouldn’t say that,” he tries to protest, but Rose is too busy laughing. “You did!” she chuckles, lighting up the garden with her usual megawatt-bright smile as she teases the Doctor with a nudge of her elbow against his ribs. “You forgot all about it, you forgot all about that _planet-of-the-soulmarks_ thing! Oh my god, for once I remembered something better than you!”

“You must be very proud,” the Doctor says wryly, and, still laughing, Rose nods. She tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, sighing; for a half-second, the name on her wrist is on full display, and even amidst the panic clenching his throat, the Doctor feels warmth, at the sight of it.

“It was Pearl Island, by the way,” he says. “In the other universe.”

“Yes! That was it. Pearl Island. Planet of mystery. Did you ever check back in with the rebels?”

“Indeed I did,” the Doctor replies, privately grateful for the chance at a distraction, and he steps away from the TARDIS, pulling his arm out of Rose’s grasp. “Fascinating story, actually, I’d originally planned to visit a decade later, make a progress report of sorts, but a timestorm near the Horsehead Nebula threw the TARDIS completely off-course--you know what they say, _a timestorm a day keeps the Doctor away_\--”

“Wait, wait,” Rose laughs, catching up. “Show me!”

The Doctor’s mind goes blank. “I--what?”

“Oh, come on. I showed you mine both times, you kept yours hidden back then. You gonna show me yours now, or what?”

“Show you my what?” asks the Doctor, as alarm bells start ringing somewhere at the back of his mind. He picks up his pace.

“Don’t be daft. Show me your wrist, show me the soulmark-thing!”

The Doctor hesitates (but doesn’t let up in speed). “Of course I would, but it’s just--It isn’t as if it actually--It’s--it’s like you said last time,” he stammers, fingers opening and closing nervously. “Just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo, isn’t it? Not really anything all that significant, wouldn’t recommend taking it too seriously in the end, it’s certainly not anything worth making any life-altering decisions over--”

Rose piques an eyebrow, in amusement or concern, he can’t tell.

“--and as officers of science, it would hardly do for us to make any sort of to-do over something that barely registers on Phleighton’s Rules for Psychic Governance, would it? Can’t be higher than .0348 PD’s, maybe .0349 PD’s, tops. Fascinating set of Rules, those, did I ever tell you how Phleighton came to write them? Did she write them in this universe? Let’s go--”

Rolling her eyes, Rose grabs his hand before he has a chance to react, anchoring him to her.

“--find out,” the Doctor squeaks as he tries to step back and yank his hand away, but it’s too late--Rose has already pushed his jacket-cuff back, revealing the underside of his wrist to the world. He flinches, unable to look down at his arm, only capable of looking at Rose as his blood pressure plummets like an anvil. He wills her, silently, to understand.

_It doesn’t mean anything_, he wants to tell her (wants to shout), but something has slithered into his vocal chords and strangled them. _It’s incredibly common for Time Lords. Even if it wasn’t, it’s insignificant. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change how I feel. Please--_

“You know how much I love you, right?” he blurts out.

Rose looks up at him and--and is that a smile?

“Of course I do,” she says. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Dumbfounded at this reaction, the Doctor looks down at his wrist, dreading, in cold sickening advance, what he knows he’ll find there. Except--

Except it’s not blank at all, this time. This time, his wrist has got Rose’s name on it.

Blinking, mouth open in surprise, the Doctor pulls his hand out of Rose’s, examining the mark on his arm. The name would almost be difficult to make out, if the Doctor wasn’t already familiar with Rose’s rushed and messy penmanship, but it’s there, clear as day. _Rose Tyler_. 

“You look surprised,” Rose chuckles. “What, didn’t think my name would be there?”

_It wasn’t always_, he almost replies.

He shakes himself. “Oh, so _that’s _what it says,” he replies instead, forcing on a grin. “Glad you cleared it up for me, couldn’t tell, what with the sloppy handwriting--”

“Oi, as if yours is any better!” Rose retorts, holding up her wrist for proof, but he ignores her words in favor of stepping forward to frame her face in both hands and pull her up for a kiss. It isn’t even something he consciously plans on doing; it’s as if his body has a completely separate mind of its own, and that mind is so glad that Rose’s name is on his wrist, it just can’t bloody help itself. It’s got to seal the deal with a kiss, lips on lips and comingled breaths and chests pressed close and one hand tangling in her hair. It’s a physical imperative, a sheer necessity, an utter need. All of it. (All of her.)

(Not that the Doctor’s complaining. Or Rose, for that matter.)

When he pulls back to catch his breath (stupid human lungs, how dare they), it’s to see a _very _flushed and smiling Rose, and secretly, he’s quite pleased to see that even after all these months, he can still elicit such a reaction from her.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, softly. “Are you all right?”

He beams at her. “Never been better.”

(He kisses her, again.)


End file.
